Classic Poem

Sweet as short Slumber to a troubled Mind,
Long press'd with Cares, and now to rest inclin'd,
Has been the little Requiem of thy Reign
To wretched Britain 's poor Distemper'd Brain:
By Fits, and Starts, we wake; but, when the Fright
Is o'er, again we close our weary'd Sight,
Hoping, that the Bless'd Hand that gave us ease,
Will hinder a return of the Disease.
Our Kings of late, as if the Father swore
The Son to Plague us to his utmost Pow'r,
Out-doing each his Predecessor's Hate,
Instead of Ruling, have destroy'd the State:
But when the last Usurp'd the Royal Throne,
(Justly Excluded for Religion)
As much he did their Crimes surpass, and more,
Than they the worst of theirs that went before.
No Arts, no Tricks, that Statesmen cou'd devise,
Or Priests find out to try to Sacrifice
Our Lives, Religion, Laws, and Properties,
But what he set on Foot: Nay, more, he thought
Himself, how our Destruction might be wrought;
Borow'd some hours from Luxury and Ease,
To add unto the Nations Grievances.
So opposite to all that look'd like Good,
So prone to Vengeance, and Ally'd to Blood;
That all the little Comfort that surviv'd,
Was, that our Woes were to a height arriv'd.
The Hag of Syracuse , who us'd to Pray,
When others Damn'd the Haughty Tyrant's Sway,
Lest, when he dy'd, a greater Scourge than he,
Shou'd be advanc'd to the Supremacy;
Had she been here, might have withdrawn her Curse;
For Heav'n than James , cou'd not ordain a worse.
But as when Vice is to the highest grown,
Virtue Succeeds, and reassumes her Throne:
So you, by your Succession to the Sway
Of these Three Kingdoms, bring again that Day,
Which, since her Death, whose Fame shall never Die,
Has been o'ercast with a dark low'ring Skie;
And, by one Act, releiv'd the Nation more
Than all their Malice cou'd depress before.
So the bless'd Ægypt 's River, when he spreads
His Liquid Bosom o'er his Neighb'ring Meads;
What seven years Sun strove to dry up in vain;
He renders Fruitful by his Waves again.
Born of a Race, who in all Ages stood,
The only Champions of the Publick Good;
And Bred, where no such thing as Wrong was known,
But each Man freely may enjoy his own:
What may not we expect, if under thy
Command, we once more English Valour try,
And our old Claims renew again? We may
Visit those Realms, where our Fore-fathers lay,
Many a long Night, and bore the Royal Sway.
But, e're we to a Foreign War advance
Our Arms, or think but of regaining France ,
A nearer Nation claims thy Pious Aid,
To free her from the same impending Dread,
Which late o're England hung: But England grows
Unminful of her Suff'ring Neighbours Woes,
Now she herself is free; poor Ireland
Stands trembling underneath a Tyrant's Hand,
Waiting each Moment for the fatal Word,
Till rescu'd from it by her Lawful Lord.

Now, what return for all these kindnesses,
For slighting of the Dangers of the Seas,
And leaving thy own Country; to restore
Freedom to those whose Lives were given o're?
A Crown thou hast; but that's a small Reward,
If to the Merits of thy Deeds compar'd,
Or with our Dangers weigh'd. May she, who shares
Not only in thy Pleasures, but thy Cares,
And by dividing the Imperial weight,
A numerous, and a happy Progeny,
By Heav'ns Divine Permission, bear to thee
Renders the Burden of a Crown more light,
Who may the Scepter of these Nations Sway,
Till they and Monarchy at once decay:
So Beggars, when some Charitable Man
Throws more, than even their Exigency can
Or does require, amaz'd at what they have,
Wish Heav'n, and all its Toyes, to him that gave.